I'm not okay
by Tazzie24
Summary: *MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING* Various Sherlock characters help John and Sherlock's flatmate through bouts of anxiety and depression. Contains graphic descriptions - please please please don't read if it might trigger you.
1. Chapter 1

Mental health issues are serious. I've based these of my own experiences as it helped me to write them; please, please, please if you are struggling get professional help - it's tough but you can do it. If reading this will help you the way it helped me to write it go ahead, but if you are sensitive to things like this then please be mindful of what's best for you.

* * *

Sherlock was first. He was tapping away at his laptop attempting to decode a hard drive found at a crime scene, mumbling in frustration at each failed attempt. The sudden resounding thud of the closing front door slightly startled him out of his thoughts, however his vexed rebuke died on his lips once he quickly realised the utility of the new arrival.  
"Finally," he called not looking up from his laptop, once again hissing as the code turned red.  
"So close," he mumbled before sighing. Disconnecting the hard drive he swiftly rose from his seat. "I need you to deliver this to Lestrade immediately, see if he can get it decoded." He continued blabbering away to himself as he pranced around the living room placing the drive into an envelope before grabbing his suit jacket and sliding it on. It was as he was reaching for his coat that he realised he heard no footsteps coming up the stairs and saw no auburn-haired girl in the doorway glaring at him exasperatedly. He paused, frowning.  
"Jess?"  
The sound of short laboured gasps filled the silence. Slightly alarmed, the tall man made his way towards the stairs.  
"What are you doing?"  
He was greeted by the sight of said girl sitting on the floor, back pressed into the door and knees curled up to her chest. Her trembling fingers were tangled in her hair, eyes closed and head leaned back as her chest heaved with laboured breaths. A tear escaping from her trembling eyelids snapped Sherlock out of his temporary stupor and he glided down the stairs kneeling in front of her.  
His hands hovered over her unsurely. "Uh okay, clearly you're having a panic attack – I guess it's quite obvious you need to calm yourself."  
She barked in amusement. "Trying."  
Sherlock glanced over her. "Well, technically-"  
"Not helping," she interrupted him, opening her eyes to treat him with a weak glare. A groan sounded from her throat and much to the detective's surprise she grabbed his hand and leaned her forehead on it.  
"Make it stop, Sherlock," she gasped out, more tears pooling out of her eyes.  
His gaze turned sad. "I can't," he said softly, but moved to sit by her side. With his free hand he gently tilted her chin up, before glancing over her again.  
"It would also help if you straightened your legs out."  
She abided his order and he placed his hand on her neck, rubbing it soothingly.  
"Try to concentrate on your breathing," he instructed, deep baritone voice soft and smooth. "I will count; breathe in for the count of 4, hold for 4, then breathe out for 6, okay?"  
She nodded.  
"Ready? In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."

They sat there for a couple of minutes, the girl's breathing quickly evening out. Her tight grip on Sherlock's hand loosened and she sat up straighter, opening her eyes with a deep breath before glancing at Sherlock.  
"Feeling better?" he asked.  
She nodded. "Yeah, thanks."  
"Good. Let's go upstairs then."  
Helping the girl to her feet, he couldn't help but notice the tremors still running through her body, nor the way she averted her gaze from him, eyes glued to the floor. He frowned. Why was she embarrassed? In an attempt to put her at ease, he fancily curtsied and with a charming smile gestured towards the stairs.  
"After you, milady."  
His efforts were rewarded with a soft giggle and the two made their way to the living area.

Jessica sunk into the couch, crossing her legs and arms, eyes turned to the floor. Sherlock stood in front of her in silence, quite unsure how to proceed.  
The silence stretched between them.  
"Tea?" he finally asked, holding back a cringe as the girl flinched at his sharp inquiry.  
A small smile darted across her face. "No thank you," she replied softly.  
Sherlock sighed. "Look, I'm… I'm not very good with this sort of thing," he admitted.  
Jessica chuckled. "I know, don't worry about it."  
"But, I, um," he continued before pausing. The girl glanced up at the sudden silence, slightly startled as the detective whirled around and dragged up his armchair to sit in front of her. Leaning back, he crossed his legs and observed her silently.  
A sly grin spread across her face. "Go on."  
He frowned. "Go on what?"  
"Do what you do best – deduce."  
"I-uh," he cleared this throat, eyes darting away for a second. "Right. As soon as you came inside-"  
"Skip to the end," she interrupted him, unwilling to hear the whole long-winded explanation as to how he reached his conclusion.  
Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "You have social anxiety."  
She nodded. "Yup."  
"Which," Sherlock continued frowning, "I must admit I had never noticed before. You hide it really well."  
"Had lots of years of practice."  
He nodded. Silence once again enveloped them and the girl sighed.  
"Perhaps I should just tell you about it all then?"  
"If you so wish."

And so she began telling him all about her depression and anxiety, the self-harm and suicide attempts and panic attacks. Sherlock listened carefully, taking into account all that she said, asking about her coping mechanisms and preventative methods, signs of a danger night approaching, everything he needed to know to keep one of his few friends as safe as possible from her own mind.  
"What I still do not understand is," he straightened in his chair, "why you looked so ashamed downstairs." He looked at her intently. "So timid, almost as if…" his eyes widened in realisation. "… as if you were afraid of me?"  
She smiled sadly. "Not afraid, just embarrassed. You're all about logic and control Sherlock, and this is all very much illogical and out of control. I just, don't want you to start hating me for it or-"  
"I could never hate you."  
Silence.  
"You're my friend," he clarified softly. "I couldn't hate you for something like this."  
For the first time since she arrived home Jessica finally looked into his eyes. A genuine smile spread across her lips.  
"Thanks Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2

Next was Mycroft.

The minute she woke up that morning, Jessica knew it wasn't a good day, anxiety already fluttering in her stomach. Still she got up, had her tea and meds, and got ready to brave her day at university. Now fairly well attuned to her moods, Sherlock immediately noticed she was off and made sure to wave his phone at her as she hurried out of their shared flat, much to John's confusion, but with a very clear message to the girl to text him if she needed anything. It turned out to be a tough day, that with 3 lectures one after the other. Finally leaving for home, the girl sighed in relief – all she wanted now was to sit on the couch, drink her tea and commit all she had learned today to memory. If Sherlock was home she could also ask him to check her essay.  
Her joy was quickly shattered as her phone buzzed.  
_Meet me at Starbucks. – MH  
_Fuck.

Starbucks was absolutely full of people. Clenching her jaw against the sudden anxiety rising in her chest, Jessica pushed the door open and looked around for the familiar head of ginger and grey suit. She tried, she really did, to keep her focus as she weaved through the tables and ignore all the intrusive thoughts running through her mind. When she finally spotted the older Holmes, she couldn't help but be grateful that he was too focused on the open laptop before him to observe her stiff, halted movements. Sliding her bag off her shoulder and onto the floor, she rather ungracefully fell into the chair before him.  
"Graceful as ever, I see," he drawled, still not looking up.  
"Ever the gentleman, aren't you Mycroft," she retorted, trying to keep her voice from shaking. While Sherlock had been nice to her, she was absolutely sure Mycroft would shun her if he noticed. Her chest tightened even further at the thought and she tried to keep her breathing under control.  
"Naturally, now if you could be so kind as to pass this file on to Sherlock-"  
Finally the older Holmes looked up, and the second his eyes met hers she knew she was screwed. He frowned, dropping the file he was holding out to her onto the table and clasping his hands together.  
"Are you alright?"  
"Yes," she answered, almost cringing at how quick her response was. "Now what's so important about that file?"  
He ignored her. "You look anxious." His eyes widened. "Did someone follow you-"  
"No Mycroft," she interrupted him, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "There's just a lot of people in here."  
A pause, and then it clicked.  
He lifted his eyebrows. "Social anxiety."  
"Yeah, sorry." She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. He didn't miss how her fisted hands were trembling. "Now, the file?"  
But Mycroft just stared at her, before sighing wearily and promptly standing from the table.  
"Come on."  
Slightly startled at his actions, the girl quickly rose to her feet and grabbing her bag followed him out of the café. He held the door open for her without looking at her and she mumbled a quick thank you before sliding out, head spinning slightly as relief flooded her. She was out of there. Fresh air. All is good now.  
Mycroft's warm hand landing on the small of her back alerted her to the sleek black car standing parked in front of them. Grabbing the door for her, Mycroft waited for her to stumble inside before shutting it firmly behind her and hurrying round to the other side to slide in beside her.

"Baker Street," he told the driver and the engine purred into life.  
"I had not noticed," he commented, staring out the window. "Thinking back, it all was a little obvious but none-the-less social activity had never before warranted such a response from you, at least in my presence."  
The girl remained silent. She could feel tears pooling in her eyes at his reproachful tone, but she refused to let them fall. She embarrassed herself in front of Mycroft. Self-hatred ignited in her chest and this time she didn't even try to stop the barrage of insults her mind hurled at her.  
"I do wish you had informed me about this earlier, then-"  
Having finally turned to look at the girl whom he had come to view as a little sister, Mycroft's eyes widened at the tears streaming down her cheeks. He quickly realised his hard tone was misinterpreted as anger towards her instead of anger at his own thoughtlessness.  
"Oh please don't cry my dear," his tone turned gentler, and he held out a handkerchief, frowning when she turned away instead of accepting it. "It's quite alright."  
"You hate me now, isn't it," she said quietly, voice thick.  
That startled Mycroft. "What? No, I-"  
He stopped. Taking another look at the girl, he realised she was lost in her own thoughts, which undoubtedly weren't very pleasant. Deciding trying to talk her out of it wouldn't prove very effective, the older Holmes shuffled closer to her and clasped her hand comfortingly, letting his other hand rub soothingly up and down her arm.  
"There, there," he cooed. "I'm not angry at you. Not at all."

It took a couple of minutes of arm rubbing and quiet reassurances for the girl's sobs to finally quieten down. She brought a trembling fist to her face and began wiping away the tears glistening on her cheeks.  
Mycroft reached into his pocket. "Allow me, my dear."  
He once again brought out the handkerchief and gently wiped her cheeks dry.  
"Thank you," she mumbled quietly, risking a glance up at his face. To her surprise there was no annoyance or reproach in his features, but instead Mycroft smiled gently at her.  
"It's quite alright. Are you better now?"  
"Yes," she nodded, and with a final pat he moved back to his seat, turning to look out the window.  
"Very well. Now tell me, how long has this been bothering you for? Do you take medication? Have you been to therapy?"  
She shrugged. "A good couple of years, I take fluoxetine and propranolol and I've been to 2 therapies so far."  
He frowned. "Ineffective I presume?"  
She grinned. "Highly effective, actually."  
Mycroft had to hold back a scowl. If this is the result of two highly effective therapies and medication, he briefly wondered how bad it must have been beforehand.  
"Ask Sherlock if you want, he'll tell you all about it."  
Mycroft whipped his head to her. "Sherlock knows?"  
She smiled innocently. "For the past couple of months, yeah."  
The older Holmes sighed, irritated. "And of course he didn't think to tell me, what else could I expect."  
Satisfaction stirred in his chest at the laughter earned by his sour statement.

The car slowed down and Jessica looked out the window to see they've arrived at 221B. She raised her eyebrows at Mycroft. "You coming in?"  
"Naturally," he replied, reaching for the door. "I have a younger brother to scold. Oh," he turned back to her, "and if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask."  
He was out before she could reply, but still managed to catch her thankful smile in the car window reflection.


	3. Chapter 3

After Mycroft came John. Having been completely engrossed in the current case Sherlock rather spectacularly failed to recognise the signs that a danger night was upon them – even John had noticed the girl was unusually quiet that morning, but ultimately put it down to tiredness; university was hard work after all. Still, throughout the day's investigations his mind kept wandering to his friend's pale, sad complexion and by early evening he made his mind up to leave Sherlock to his deductions and return home early to take the girl out for some pizza and a chat – that was bound to cheer her up. However, the moment he entered the flat an uneasy feeling stirred in his gut, his 'soldier sense' as he had privately taken to calling it. Shutting the door behind him, he paused and called out softly with a frown.  
"Jessica?"  
Cautiously, he made his way up the stairs.  
"Mrs Hudson? Jess? You in here?"  
Having made it to the top of the stairs he reached into his jacket, fingers curling around his gun. Opening the door slowly, he walked in to find an empty living room bathed in a thick silence.

Years of army service and hospital work had attuned John to the smell of blood. He easily caught a whiff of the sweet, metallic aroma. Whipping around, his eyes widened at the sight that met him.  
"Jesus," he breathed, rushing towards the far corner of the kitchen where Jessica sat on the floor crumpled against the cupboard, eyes downcast, blood flowing freely down her arm from several deep cuts decorating her shoulder and upper arm, around the inside of the elbow joint. The fingers of her right hand were curled around a large piece of bloodstained glass, many other smaller pieces showered around her. John carefully swept them out of the way with his shoe and dropped to his knees before the girl.  
"Jess, Jess," he called out to her urgently, grabbing her good arm and reaching for her chin with his other hand. Cupping her face, he gently brought her head up, relieved to find her conscious. Her face was covered in tears and snot, spittle dribbling down her chin from her open lips. Her body was still heaving with sobs and she was shaking. Her red, puffy eyes remained averted from John, fixed on the piece of glass in her hand.  
"Jess, hey look at me sweetheart," he cooed, grabbing her chin and turning her head towards him. Still she would not meet his eyes.  
"Can you hear me?" he asked, urgency once again sparking in his voice. "Hey, look at me, it's okay, it's okay."  
He snatched the glass from her limp fingers and threw it away from them, before leaning over to open a nearby draw and grab a clean kitchen towel from inside. He proceeded to wrap it firmly around her arm, muttering profanities softly to himself. He pulled hard, causing a pained whimper to tear itself from her throat.  
"Sorry," he apologised, looking up at her. "I know it hurts, but I need to staunch the blood flow okay?"  
Finally, the girl took a deep breath and spoke in a quiet cracked voice.  
"Sorry John, I," she frowned. "I didn't want to do that, only a couple, not that deep..."  
"Hey it's alright," he hushed her gently. "Now tell me, and I need to know this it's very important okay, did you hurt yourself anywhere else?"  
She shook her head.  
"Okay good that's good, did you take anything? Any sort of pills or drugs or detergents-"  
"No," she said. Thick tears suddenly pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, breath hitching as another sob racked her body. "No, didn't you listen I said I didn't mean to, it was only, only..."  
"I know, I know," John quickly reassured her. "I know you didn't mean to, I just had to ask okay?" He shifted into a crouching position and reached for his phone. "Now, I'm going to call for an ambulance okay and we'll-"  
"NO!" she screamed, lunging forward and gripping John's wrist surprisingly hard before wrenching it away from his ear. Her panicked, tired eyes spied his. "No hospital I don't want to be locked away, I _don't want to be locked away-_"  
"Nobody is locking you away," he explained calmly, gently trying to pry her fingers away, "We're just going to go get you cleaned up okay? Those cuts need stitches-"  
"Can't you do it?" she sobbed, leaning forward desperately. "You're a doctor can't you just do it here? No," she suddenly frowned, pausing. "No, you, you don't believe – that's it right?"  
John opened his mouth to reassure her but she carried on before he could say anything.  
"You want me to go cos you think I took something and you want to test me cos you can't take my word for it, and – and," she started pushing away from him further into the corner, "or no you want to put me down, I'm insane and I need to be put down-"

"No."  
His stern voice startled her out of her ramblings. Firmly grabbing her good forearm with one hand and cupping her neck with the other, he looked straight into her frightened eyes.  
"You're not going to be put down," he said firmly. "You are a human being and a beautiful, wonderful girl and nobody is going to put you down, okay? Now," he shuffled slightly, "If you don't want to go to the hospital we won't, okay?"  
Relieved, she nodded.  
"Right," he smiled gently, "do you think you could get up now? We'll go to the bathroom and I'll clean up those cuts alright?"  
"Yeah, okay," she sighed in relief and allowed him to help her up and guide her to the bathroom.

Once he settled her down on the toilet, the doctor quickly grabbed his bag and a stool from his room before settling himself down in front of the girl and beginning to dress her wounds. He found himself holding back tears at the sight of the angry red marks. How had he not noticed?  
"Where's Sherlock?" Jessica asked quietly.  
"Still working on the case," John answered, cleaning her arm with disinfectant. He glanced up at her. "We don't have to tell him if you don't want to, though he'll probably work it out himself."  
She smiled sadly. "It's alright John, he knows."  
The doctor frowned. "He does?"  
"Yeah, one time he saw me having a panic attack."  
John couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. He had always thought he was on good terms with the girl, and would have said she trusted him enough to seek help if she ever needed it.  
"You know you can always come to be right?" he questioned gently, cleaning her arm from blood.  
"I know John," she replied sadly, "and I'm sorry that I hadn't told you, it's just... it's difficult, you know? Sherlock only found out cos I happened to have a breakdown around him."  
"It's completely alright," he smiled briefly at her, before starting on the stitches.  
They settled into a comfortable silence.  
"You know," Jessica began quietly as he was close to finishing, "I wasn't trying to kill myself this time, only just cut." She smiled sadly. "Sometimes I just get a little carried away, when the voices get too strong."  
_'This time', 'only just', 'sometimes' _– she made it sound so casual, like it was such a normal thing for her. Tears blurred his vision and John found himself swallowing hard trying desperately to hold them back.  
"I know," he choked out.  
"You can cry you know," she said gently. He paused and looked up to see her gazing at him kindly, so much more like the Jessica he knew and not the broken girl he'd just seen. "You don't need to hold back for my sake. I'll feel bad either way, and it may even help to dissuade me next time."  
_Next time. _  
The floodgates opened and John let his tears fall. Hastily wiping away his tears, he finished bandaging her arms and quickly washed his hands before enveloping her in a huge hug.  
"Never, ever, _ever_ do this again you hear me?" he whispered into her ear.  
She sighed. "I will John."  
"No, no you won't," he protested. Releasing her from the hug he cupped her face. "If you ever, _ever_ feel like doing this again or just have a bad day or feel sad or angry or _whatever _just come to me okay? You can _always, always come to me_. No matter what time of day or night, I'll be there, got it?"  
Tears pooled in her eyes, once again spilling down her cheeks and she nodded.  
"Come here."  
He hugged her close and allowed her to sob into his chest. Slipping one arm underneath her knees he lifted her up bridal style and carried her to the couch, where they sat huddled together until she cried herself to sleep.


End file.
